


Sacrament

by ShannonXL



Series: Shit My Sherlock Does [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, F/F, Fem!Sherlock, Female Sherlock Holmes, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Lesbian Irene, POV Irene Adler, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Subspace, Whipping, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to sex. With one exception. Irene eclipses and predominates everything else. Theirs are not softer passions. They are impossible to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrament

Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to sex.

During. It’s not that it doesn’t interest her. If anything, sex is far _too fascinating_. There are so many variations, too many nuances that she wants to explore, and the mole on one’s hand or the scar tissue in one’s ankle or the anxious muscular twitch in one’s stomach can deter her far too easily. She wants to know _what_ and _why_ and _how_ and she gets so lost in the particulars that she often forgets what she’s doing. She goes through the motions, of course. But her body is just transport. And sex, as we all know, exists in the mind more than the body. 

So, how to keep her occupied?

Sherlock prefers hemp rope. Not the coarse variety. The kind that feels soft and weather-smooth. She prefers hemp, but she’ll take what she gets and learn to like it. Sherlock will say she prefers knots that are difficult for her to untangle, but what she really prefers is for her body and her mind to become so intertwined that she doesn’t think to try to break away. From the knots. From anything. Mostly, she prefers the sound of Irene’s voice in her ear, the bite of her ungentle touches, the blessed relief from distraction. 

How to keep the mind of Sherlock Holmes engaged with sex?

Irene starts cruel. She does it out of love. They’d experimented with kindness, with the gentle easing-in. Sherlock, bluntly, informed them both that it was dull. Irene slapped her and Sherlock grinned, and they fell backwards kissing. Pleasant. But not what is necessary. So, Irene starts cruel. She brings Sherlock to her knees. And it’s always a test, always. _Will she do it_ is the question. Or, _will this be time time she doesn’t_ and it’s a risk, always a risk with the kind of games they play. But Sherlock makes the choice, every time, to go to her knees, and Irene feels at once shaken and sturdy, hard at her core. 

Often, she will make Sherlock wait. She might rub her fingers against Sherlock’s cheek to make her shiver, or she will thread her fingers through Sherlock’s hair and yank her head backwards, stretching her throat, forcing her to gasp. Irene will instruct her. Buttons. Overcoat. Blouse. She might tear Sherlock’s undershirt, or she might leave it. There is something beautiful about the way Sherlock’s shoulders look framed by torn white fabric. 

Irene does not speak softly.

“Are you ready to begin?”

Sherlock will stutter, for a second she will have forgotten to breathe.

“Yes.” Gasp. “ _Please_. Yes.”

“Better.”

Irene will step around her prone body, unpredictable, and Sherlock has given up trying to track her. Not important. Not interesting. Too much adrenaline. Her arms will be lifted over her head, her back laid bare, and the air will be cold and her nipples will be taut and she will only be able to _breathe_. Anything else is impossible. Even digesting air feels like too much. No more invasive thoughts. No more curiosity. Just the blessed relief of silence. Better than cocaine, better than anything else in the entire world. Diving deep down. Nothing except Irene’s commands, the pain and pleasure she’s given. If only she could always be inside her body without feeling trapped. 

“On your knees darling.”

Sherlock falls, and the rope is just long enough to tug her hands upward without stretching too far. Irene taps the edge of the whip against her skin, between her shoulders. She has made a promise: no permanent injuries. Sherlock doesn’t seem to care. Irene is sure that, as long as the experience was thrilling, she wouldn’t be bothered by a mutilation or scar. Because Sherlock is and always will be careless like that. But Irene cares.

Because Irene takes care of what is hers.

“It’s been a long time. I’m not sure you remember how to be good.”

Sherlock trembles. 

“But you remember not to speak without permission.” Irene crouches down, grabbing Sherlock’s chin, forcing her to look straight ahead, into her eyes. “Let’s see what else you remember.”

Sherlock whimpers, because that is allowed. Irene strikes her, just a sharp little smack across her breast. It leaves a thin pink mark on Sherlock’s fair skin. And the sound she makes is the most delicate music. Irene smiles.

“What do you say?”

“One,” Sherlock whispers. She’s been trained well. 

Irene moves to her back. By the time Sherlock has counted to thirty, there are tears streaming down her cheeks and her teeth are rattling, the combination of the cold and the exertion are taking their toll. Irene reaches for the cleansing solution, pouring it across Sherlock’s shoulders without warning, and Sherlock hisses as it stings the sore marks. It looks lovely. Red and stark, a striking, vibrant display of submission. Irene touches, running her fingers on the outskirts of the hurts. Sherlock is shaking.

“Color?”

“Yelllow.” Her voice is so small. 

“What can I do for you, my darling?” Irene glances at the ropes, but Sherlock’s hands are fine. They’ll need to be massaged, but no permanent damage. 

“Touch me. Please. I need-”

“Shhhhh,” Irene kisses the back of her neck. Soothing. She wraps her arms around Sherlock, stroking her abdomen, teasing her nipples. Sherlock sways, rocking against her, heedless of the fire on her back as she ruts backwards. Irene presses her fingers into skin, rubbing circles, going lower, lower, lower…

Sherlock gasps when Irene touches her. She’s swollen and wet, and Sherlock cries out when Irene has barely begun. It’s delicious. Irene coaxes her through the first orgasm, sweet and harsh as it strikes every nerve in Sherlock’s body. Sherlock pants, heaving against Irene. It would be too cruel to let her go now. Irene waits until the tremors subside before she brings her wet fingers to Sherlock’s lips.

“Here, my love.”

Sherlock sucks, her tongue exploring Irene’s skin. Clean. Very well trained. But she can feel her lips are dry. Dehydrated. She kisses Sherlock’s shoulder, reaching for the water bottle stored nearby. She opens it with her teeth, keeping contact. Bare skin against bare skin. Sherlock has so many jagged edges and Irene loves all of them. 

“Drink dear.”

Sherlock follows her command, accepting the water without blinking. Irene knows the look in her eyes. Hooded and sated and undistracted. Often, Sherlock is glaring, looking at people like she can look through them (she can), but this special gift has been reserved for Irene. Completely grounded, without the willful arrogance of a brilliant mind. When she’s like this, without Irene, she would be lost. It’s a blessing, this trust, and Irene treats it as such. 

Sherlock is strong. Her muscles are enduring, and her spirit is determined to continue. 

Irene removes the bottle after Sherlock has finished half. “More?”

It takes Sherlock a moment to understand. At first, she must think Irene means the water.

“Yes, please.”

Irene takes it slower this time. She reaches between Sherlock’s legs, sliding one finger in and out of her. It’s not enough to finish her, just enough to tease. Sherlock melts against her, sighs turning into moans turning into gasps turning into pleas. _Please let me please let me I need it please Irene please don’t tease me anymore please let me please_ and Irene does. She takes her hand out of Sherlock and smoothes rough circles into her clot, fingering herself as she does. They orgasm together, and the smell is intoxicating. Sherlock’s arms hang limp.

“Please, I-” Sherlock twitches when Irene removes the ropes.

“You’ve had enough darling.” Irene massages Sherlock’s fingers. 

Sherlock bends when Irene directs her to, resting on the pillows Irene placed in front of her, knowing her girl turns to jelly after she’s finished with her. 

“Never enough,” Sherlock mumbles, her worths coming slow and thick as molasses. 

Irene has heard that it is hell to love a fighter. What she didn’t know was that hell would taste so sweet. 

“Close your eyes, my darling.” Irene wraps herself around her, chin on her shoulder. “You did well. You were so good for me.”

Sherlock reaches for Irene’s hand, tangling their fingers together.

“Thank you.”

Irene kisses her. Nothing more needs to be said. 


End file.
